


Coming home

by howlingmary79



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Crying John, Crying Mycroft, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV Sherlock Holmes, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:33:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8719195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howlingmary79/pseuds/howlingmary79
Summary: Sherlock's coming home





	1. John's aftershave

**Author's Note:**

> The characters are not mine. Please, review if you liked. Thank you!

Waking up feels like coming home after a long journey. To finally come home, I must say. I’ve been away; I don’t know where and why. I cannot remember anything before this moment, and it’s terrifying. But the gap only concerns the events of the immediate past, the course of actions that put my supreme brain in this actual state. 

I don’t feel pain. I cannot open my eyes. I’ve tried, but I’ve lost the battle. But I can hear and smell. 

-

The smell is the first sense to come back and it is John’s aftershave that wakes me up. Among the other smells, that tell me I am in a hospital, I recognise John’s perfume and it helps me to focus on the current situation. 

- 

Time has little meaning for me at the moment. I can hear John even if I cannot see him, and I know when he is not here. His presence, so solid and reassuring, is like a safe port where I always find comfort. When John is in the room, I am not afraid of falling asleep because his presence anchors me to the present and I am sure he will be by my side when I wake up. For once, I don’t care about the “sentiment” thing. John makes me feel better and I am not afraid to admit it to my tired brain.

-

I don’t know how long I have been awake for. I’m trying to deduce what day is it but I’ve not got sufficient information at the moment. I guess I must wait to ask John when I can speak to him.

-

I’ve been in and out, I don’t want to sleep but sometimes I cannot help it. My mind simply shuts down and I lose consciousness. I am trying hard to fight against it but to no avail.

 -

I am given powerful drugs. They want me to be relaxed and sedated. The last time I wake up John isn’t in the room. I feel ridiculously agitated and I hear alarms beeping in crescendo until a nurse enters the room to check on me. Then a doctor comes in the room. I can not understand what they are saying, and my chest feels tight, which isn’t a bad thing since it is the first physical sensation I had in days. But it does not last long because I loose consciousness again, to my disappointment.

-

The next time my mind is alert again I know John is near. I feel relieved about his proximity and I release a sigh. I didn’t expect to actually sigh out loud but I probably did because John holds my hand and this time I can feel it. I try to hold his own but my transport does not cooperate with me. I would like to express my exasperation some way, making a remark at John or simply raising an eyebrow at him but can’t. 

“Just take your time, Sherlock,” he encourages me. 

I focus my attention on his voice, while he reads to me an article of the newspaper. We had a good time, John talked about Lestrade’s recent cases and commented about them, which was actually funny. 

Some time later that same day I receive a visit from my brother. Mycroft smells of rain (for once he had a good reason to take his umbrella with him) and expensive perfume. Strange how comforting his presence is. I’ve never had a good relationship with my brother but there are times, like this moment, when he forgets about his career and position and actually talks to me, and I like those times. I don’t feel like a bug under a lens which he can decide to kill or to make live any more. 

John declares he needs to run some errands and that he will come back in a couple of hours. Mycroft offers to stay for the night.

I am impressed, Mycroft is going to ruin his suit sitting in the plastic hospital chair all night long. I am amused and curious who will win the battle but to my surprise John doesn’t decline Mycroft’s offer. He must be really tired. 

John kisses me on the forehead before leaving. I understand they are having a hard time with me in a catatonic state, but the kissing thing? In front of Mycroft? Speaking of whom, I am surprised and a little startled when he takes my hand and squeezes it, saying something about me being cold. 

The man must be really worried to act like he did. He talks to me like he did when we were children; he is apologizing for not being able to protect me, again. Was I working for him when it happened? I want to ask him but I can only produce a distressed sound, which Mycroft takes as a signal I am in pain. I would like to reassure him I am fine, but again I can’t.

My distress becomes more evident and I am worried he will call the nurse to drug me again. So I stop fighting against my body and willingly relax. Mycroft relaxes too as I hear him release a sigh. 

I listen to his voice, which works like a lullaby, until I fall asleep, which probably he doesn’t notice due to the fact he doesn’t know I can hear him. But I feel safe with him around. 

-

I wake up to people talking. About me. There are John and Mycroft and a couple of voices I do not know. I guess they are doctors. 

John is angry. Mycroft is tense. A young doctor (not even thirty I suppose from his young voice) talks about a “lack of progress” and something about a “head injury”. 

That makes sense. A head injury would explain the memory loss. Maybe I fell into a coma. I wonder for how long. If only I could open my eyes. I try, really hard, but nothing happens. 

My transport still refuses to obey me. I can hear people talking around me, I can feel when someone touches me, and I can distinguish various smells. I don’t know anything about taste, because I don’t remember eating properly since I woke the first time here. And I can’t see. Well, not exactly. It’s not that I cannot see at all, I can distinguish day and night because I can see the lights through my eyelids. So I suppose there is nothing wrong with my eyes. I really don’t know what is going on with me, and I wish I could ask John about it. 

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t notice the silence that has grown in the room. 

I’m afraid something bad has happened, and I wonder where John is because I don’t want to be alone in my dark world. 

Finally John takes my hand and brings me back. I notice he is trembling. With his right hand he squeezes my own hand lightly, while he rests his left hand on my upper arm. His hands are warm. That makes me feel better. 

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” he is asking. “Can you squeeze my hand?”

 _What kind of question is that? Of course I can hear you. But, oh, I cannot exactly tell you. Damn!_ There must be a way to prove I am still here and alive. I feel very frustrated right now. 

“It’s been three weeks, Mr Holmes, he should have improved by now. You should really consider moving him into a long term facility,” the young doctor suggests.

_Wait a moment, three weeks? That means 21 days, 504 hours, 30.240 minutes and 1.814.400 seconds. I’ve been unconscious for so long? I cannot believe it, it cannot be true._

_The doctor is wrong. Tell him he is wrong, Mycroft. Tell him. Oh God, I’m screaming and nobody can hear me!_  

Mycroft is silent. He is pondering the doctor’s words. _Oh please, Mycroft don’t do this to me._  

“Sherlock, can you hear me?” John asks again.

 _For God’s sake, I can hear you John, stop repeating yourself!_  

“If he doesn’t show any sign of improvement, I’m afraid I will have no choice, I’m sorry Dr. Watson,” the young doctor announces in a firm tone.

 _The hell I am going to a long term facility!_ Come on, Sherlock, move your hand, open your eyes, just do something! 

“I’m going to give you a few minutes to discuss it…” the older doctor starts but he stops mid-sentence at John’s yelp. 

“That’s it, did you see it?” John is asking the doctor.

 _What is happening? Why can’t anybody explain the current situation to me? Mycroft, John?_  

“Do it again, ‘Lockie? Squeeze John’s hand, if you can,” Mycroft asks softly. 

And to everybody’s surprise, I am able to move my hand. I feel so good and so proud of myself. 

John sniffs. Is he crying? Oh well, I suppose he has every right to feel like crying. I feel like crying myself. Wait a moment, what is this wetness on my face?  I can’t believe I’m crying. My body still refuses to cooperate with me. I must be pathetic. 

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmurs into my hair, gently wiping my tears away with his thumbs. 

I don’t know what has happened to the doctors and I don’t care about them. I wonder if now that I have taken the first step I can make one more. I really want to come back to my usual self.

I concentrate on commanding my eyelids to lift; at first they’re too heavy. But I can’t and I won’t give up easily. 

The first thing I see when my eyes adjust to the light of the room is John’s surprised expression. I was right, he is crying. And then I look in Mycroft’s eyes. And my heart tightens in my chest to see that he is crying too. Mr British Government, aka The Iceman, is crying openly in front of me. 

“You’re going to be alright, Sherlock,” Mycroft says. 

I believe him. He is my big brother, he will keep me safe. 

John kisses me again. 

“Welcome back,” he states.

I want to ask them a million questions but I’m growing tired and I’m falling asleep again. 

“It’s all right, sleep now, Sherlock,” Mycroft gently suggests. 

“We’ll be here when you wake up,” John adds. 

I smile to them as I surrender to sleep. 

- 

TBC


	2. The healing touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I am so sorry for the late reply.

I wake up (for real). John is in the room, apparently asleep on the chair next to the bed. I notice that it’s not the uncomfortable plastic hospital chair I expected, it’s a comfortable leather recliner where I suppose one can sleep quite comfortably instead. Surely Mycroft took care of that.

I don’t mind about it. If John is comfortable, then I am more than willing to let my brother help.

Speaking of whom, I notice also that Mycroft’s umbrella is in the room, near the door. He must be out, hunting for a slice of cake. 

I take advantage of the fact John doesn’t know I am awake to take a good look around. I am in a private hospital, in a private room with a bathroom; the room has a large window but the blinds are closed. It must be expensive. Another sign Mycroft is playing an active part in this scenario.

I don’t feel any pain, except a slight headache; I hate to admit it but I feel exhausted and I just woke up. I try to move, without being too noisy so as not to wake John, in order to understand if I am alright. 

I command my feet to move. They don’t. I try again, harder this time, and still nothing. 

This is not good. Suddenly, I fear I am paralysed. Oh God, please, don’t let me paralysed. I’d rather be dead than paralysed.

I realize I am becoming anxious and the machines I am attached to register it. The beeping sound increases in volume and John notices it. 

“Sherlock, you’re awake,” he states, waking up instantly. “You’re in the hospital, remember?” he offers, smiling warmly and holding my hand.

Yes, John, thank you very much. I remember. But why can’t I move my feet or legs? 

“Are you in pain?” he asks.

For God’s sake, John! Why am I surrounded by idiots? Well, I’ve never considered John to be an idiot but why can’t he just explain to me what’s happening?

“Do you want me to call the nurse?” John asks again.

He is looking at me with his most worried expression and I realize I haven’t spoken to him.

When I try to, my throat is so dry I can only manage a croak. 

John’s expression softens then and he helps me sip water from a cup. Not a plastic cup but John’s favourite cup directly from our home at Baker Street. Another piece of information I register in order to analyse it later. The water tastes really good. I want more but John takes the cup away, saying something about “going slowly for now”. 

“Thanks,” I want to reply out loud, but I actually whisper back.

“You’re welcome. You gave us quite a scare, Sherlock. How do you feel?” 

If I was my usual self, my answer would be very articulated and detailed. And probably impolite. But speaking is difficult at the moment and I don’t need to waste my breath.

“Why?” I ask, hoping John will understand.

John looks puzzled. 

“Why are you in the hospital?” he asks me back, furrowing his brows in confusion and worry, still holding my hand as if he is afraid I will go away.

He definitely didn’t understand. I shake my head, which costs me an effort.

“Sorry, Sherlock, I don’t understand,” he replies sadly.

I concentrate on speaking again, hoping I will make myself more clear this time.

“Can’t feel my legs… can’t move my feet…” I explain, in a soft voice I don’t recognize as mine.

If my fears are justified, John will try not to show me his worry and he will obviously fail because I know him too well. If this is the case, what I am going to do with my life? What if I will never be able to look after myself and have to depend on John for everything? What about the job? How will I cope with such a situation? Paralysed, oh please God, not this. Please please please please please not this.

“Hey, calm down, Sherlock. You’re going to be fine,” John declares quite convincingly.

Should I believe him? John will never lie to me, I know that. But I am scared. Terribly scared. I don’t want to feel this way. 

“Sherlock, there’s nothing wrong with your legs or with you in general. It’s just that you’ve suffered a head injury, you fell in a comatose state for quite a long time and your body needs time to come back online. That’s why you can’t move. Please, calm down now,” John explained in his “patient tone”, gripping my hand with more force than necessary until I gave a small whimper.

“Sorry,” he offers, letting go of my hand but immediately deciding to take it again.

I am intrigued by his behaviour. John obviously needs to feel I am alive and back with him, and this is the reason why he is touching me and holding my hand.

As if reading my mind, he drops his hands in his lap and blushes. 

“I know you don’t like to be touched, sorry about that. It’s just… We were so worried about you and I… I don’t know what I would have done if you…” he stops midsentence, taking a deep breath, before looking at me again.

If I had died. But I didn’t. 

“You know I could hear you, John? While I was in the coma, I could hear you. I could feel you holding my hand. You brought me back,” I explain. “I like your touch. You can touch me if you want.”

John smile widens. 

“I’m happy to hear that.”

TBC

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you wish, leave me a comment. Thank you.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not English.   
> Huge thanks to LovesBooks who helped me with the grammar and gave me interesting advices.


End file.
